To Us Be Blessed

I've had an outpouring of messages off of the comment thread. Private messages from friends. Friends who want to help. "What can we do to help?" Asked one of the messages from a friend. There are suggestions of ways to make money writing, suggestions of places to submit writing, suggestions of agencies to contact, suggestions of ways of securing health care for the kids, offers of more catering work, suggestions of ideas toI use my violin skills, teach, etc.

Psst. The reason Santa is so jolly is he gets to be the big giver. Ho.

When I had a birthday in high school up at Interlochen, I got a bit of "fall out" in the cards from my relatives, maybe a total of $30 or $40. I splurged my loot in Traverse City buying gifts for my high school friends. They thought I was generous. I selfishly basked in the light of being benevolent, of providing.

I had a fantasy for a long time of achieving wild, fantastic success and buying my Mother and Step Dad a sailboat named the "Mississippi Hot Dog" (after a well known Suzuki Violin phrase) as a symbol of thanks for all the sacrifice over the many, many years.

I suspect this is the root of all this cooking stuff too.

So, my immediate impulse was to thank friends kindly for help and deny it.

I felt embarrassed that my writing about our life could be interpreted as a call for help. I love it when people respond in comments how they are inspired by us.

"Huh," I thought.

"A tale doesn't have to be one of victory to be inspiring."

I love those comments because if feels like I'm giving something.

Every Sunday evening I find myself praying to some un-named God of Fortune/ God of employment, that this will be the week of reprieve. Even though that Judeo/Christian God and I are on unsteady terms, what with all the confusion about the holy writ interpretations, I figure an earnest prayer to God of Fortune/God of Employment won't cause too much of a ruckus up there in the firmament.

A week and a half ago, the Monday morning after the Sunday prayer, there was an email. It was an email offering help from some old friends who I had fallen out of steady contact with, but who had been reading the posts and offered financial assistance.

My immediate impulse was to thank and deny. Apparently my Fortune God /Employment God didn't quite understand what I meant by "reprieve". I meant EMPLOYMENT in a long running show or something similar in my chosen field that would get us back to making our nut and also allow me to secure a larger income base, such as culinary education or the like. I didn't mean for my friends to offer me money.

"Thanks but no." I wanted to say.

Throughout the day Nicole and I tossed it about. We talked of responsibility to our children, whether we're really ready to pack it up and throw in the towel on this particular dream, whether we're in a position to deny the help (which of course is love) from our friends, (simply because we'd rather be the ones offering), whether we wouldn't be smarter to accept what the God of Fortune offers because maybe there's a design here that we can't see yet.

Who am I to deny others the joy of giving, especially when, whether I like it or not, I have been asking? Maybe part of the issue that has got me to this point is that I haven't accepted the opportunities that have appeared, I've only taken the ones I've wanted. Maybe I've been holding too firmly to try to make the life I've fancied and not accepting the one I've been so generously given.

Maybe.

Humbling. Indeed.

We have accepted the gift. I thank you, my old, still loving friends.

I got a call from the agent. I have been offered a reading. 5 days, $100. Pretty good part. New musical by famous writer.

I got a call from my chef friend Louis. Catering a Seder, I get to sous. 1 day, $200.

The day of catering is one of the days of the reading.

I call the agent. "Is it possible that I could miss one of the days?"

"No."

Now, normally what I would do, and what I have done for the last 20 years, is tell the chef friend sorry, but I'm doing the reading. I would accept the financial loss as an investment in the possibility that doing this reading would lead to more employment and maybe even the role when and if it finally becomes a production.

I have decided to go another way. I turned down the reading. I will put on the chef's coat and cater the Seder.

Dear Friends Who Read These Posts and Care,

I thank you and I love you for every one of your kind and tender offerings. I promise to honor and utilize every one. There is nothing that would bring me greater joy than to turn the corner in this serial story and report the fortunate turn of events that I crave. But I allow that my fortune may not be in the form that I wish it to be, and that by following what is given rather than what I desire, well maybe, just maybe I'll find my bliss.

"Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you, but it is important that you do it,"
said Ghandi.

I think he was talking to me.

Try this recipe.

ROASTED SALMON WITH BEET RISOTTO

BEET RISOTTO

2 Large Beets with Greens
6 cups chicken broth divided
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 Shallots, diced
1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine
Kosher salt to taste
freshly ground black pepper to taste
3 Tbs. finely chopped chives
4 Tbs. butter
1/3 cup grated Parmesan Cheese

Preheat oven to 450º.

Trim beet stems and reserve greens. Scrub beets. Wrap beets together tightly in foil. Roast in middle of oven for an hour or until beets are tender.

Unwrap beets and, when cool enough to handle, slip off skins and discard.

Chop beets into 1/2 dice. Slice greens into 1/4 inch strips.

In a saucepan, warm the broth over low heat.

Heat oil in skillet over medium high heat. Stir in shallots. Cook 1 minute. Add rice, stirring to coat with oil, about two minutes. When rice has taken on a pale, golden color, pour in wine, stirring constantly until the wine is fully absorbed. Add 1/2 cup broth to the rice, and stir until the broth is absorbed. Continue adding broth 1/2 cup at a time, stirring continuously, until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is al dente, about 15 to 20 minutes.

Remove from heat. Stir in Beets, greens, butter, chives and parmesan. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

ROASTED SALMON

4 Salmon Fillets
Olive Oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 350º

Place the salmon on a sheet pan, skin side down. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast for 15 to 20 minutes.

My Pleasure to Serve You

I dropped Duncan off at preschool and am at the library. Nicole is at home with Shaw and deep in some furious house cleaning. Nicole's mom Angela and brother Robert are visiting us in South Orange for the next few days to celebrate Duncan's fifth birthday on the 17th. St. Patrick's boy. Luck of the Irish, sure hope so.

So terrifically hard to wrap my mind around the young man that he has instantly become. All the parenting cliches come to mind. How fast the years go and you turn around and there are these people where babies used to be. Awfully true. He is long and lean, with a penchant for hiding games. He loves to disappear in plain sight. Putting his head up the back of my shirt and staying behind me, directing me to ask, "Where's Duncan?" I'll say, "I'm not sure where he is, I know he was just here and now I just feel this strange lump on my back and some icy cold hands every now and again."

If I get distracted while his head is up the back of my shirt, I'll hear a gentle reminder, "Say, 'Where's Duncan?'". And it will begin again, until I finally 'realize' that he was right here all along. I'll wrestle him to the sofa, much maniacal laughter, and go back to cooking. Soon I'll feel a head up the back of my shirt.

"Say, 'Where's Duncan?'"

In my lesser, more impatient moments I'll say something like, "Dunc look, I'm trying to cook here." He'll say, "Aw," and go to the sofa and read a book. I'll cook.

In my late night worry times, as I'm lying on my side of the bed, holding the radio to my ear and tuning instantly away from any advertisements that mention "foreclosure", I will suddenly see him behind my closed eyes and wince because I don't know what is going to happen with his future, because the ship certainly seems to be sinking awfully fast and he is blissfully unaware with a Dad who is all too aware.

Should I try to get a job at Target? Whole Foods? Home Depot? We're now at the point that these are the questions. No saviour acting job is appearing, in fact the situation only seems to be getting much, much worse.

Over Christmas, before we went to Missouri, I contacted a chef friend of mine, Louis who I had met through the internet. I sent him a message offering my sous services. He wrote back that he might have something the next week.

"Well, that was easy." I thought.

The next day, it was a Saturday, I got a call on my voice mail from Louis saying that the job he had next week had fallen through but I would be getting a call from another man, Jono who needed some help putting together a party the next day on Sunday. He needed someone to serve. Not cook anything, serve.

"Well, now I did it." I thought.

I can't remember what specific show biz disappointment I was reeling from that particular week, but an enormous battle of my internal ego immediately ensued.

I hadn't worked a catering job or a restaurant position since 1997. I had worked in restaurants and catering in New York off and on since I'd moved there and went to NYU in 1983. The story I had created went like this ( you might find it a familiar one): I would work my bottom off in any job I could in New York and take any theater job I could find until I eventually made my way as an actor and left the restaurants, light construction and catering jobs behind only to be resurrected as quaint stories (preferably on talk shows) of salad days employment. I would marvel at how hard I worked then and how it formed my character and enhanced the sweetness my success.

The fact that I had spent 13 years away from such employment made me think, certainly during those "six figure Broadway/tour - let's buy a house!" years, that the story was undeniably true. Because we were living it.

So there I was wandering around mid December South Orange, now several messages on my voice mail asking me to call Jono immediately because he needed to know if I could work the party and me completely unable to return the call and reverse the story that I had clung to since I made the plan on or about 1976.

There was a roaring in my ears. I found myself in that little children's park near the train station. A man in an overcoat walked up to the steel xylophone thingy and produced some mallets. He played a beautiful improvised melody. I returned the call.

There was nothing in my voice that betrayed the emotional distress I was going through.

I said, "Sure I can help you out."

I got the address, asked him what I should wear... etc.

I walked back home. I had something resembling resolve. I hadn't written this part of the life story in my mind, but here we were. The fact that I was taking the job was less painful than the paralysis of not returning the call.

I went and worked the party. I sliced up the ham and arranged the buffet table for Jono and his wife Elizabeth, movie and television producers who owned a brownstone in Brooklyn. I set up the bar and stationed myself behind it when the guests arrived.

At one point, one of the children at the party asked if she could have a soda. I said "Sure."

Then she said, "I want water instead."

I said, "Sure."

"You're the servant," she said,

I said, "Yes I am."

I took a break and locked myself in Jono's bathroom. I looked in the mirror. I remembered when I worked at Blue Water Grill in 1996/97. I was the oldest on the staff then at 31. One of the other waiters affectionately nicknamed me "Papa." I looked at my 44 year old self in the mirror.

I thought about Anthony Hopkins in that movie... I can never remember the title, the "I'm a butler my whole life and even though Emma Thompson loves me, I can't do anything about it" movie... Remains of the Day! Thank you.

I cleaned up after the folks had eaten and drunk their fill, accepted Jono's money and a gift of a bag of leftover meatballs, made my way from Brooklyn back to Penn Station and caught a late train home.

Jono called me to let me know that he had recommended me for another party; a brunch birthday for a friend of his on the upper west side. I was to call Jeffrey.

I called Jeffrey and worked the party. Jeffrey turned out to be Jeffrey Lane the writer/producer who I first met on The Day and Nights of Molly Dodd where I had a recurring role and he was the writer in 1989. I ran into Jeffrey again because he was the book writer of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. We shared cocktails and conversation at the opening party in Los Angeles when I did the tour in 2006/7. And now here I was serving his coffee and arranging his salmon for his guests.

I swept the floor of his kitchen in his magnificent Manhattan 3 bedroom on Riverside drive and did the dishes when the party was over. He gave me some cash and I took the train home.

It hadn't taken long for my worst fear in taking these jobs to materialize. I had hoped to remain exquisitely anonymous during my foray back into private catering, and it was blown on the second job. The business knew. Show business knew.

Late one night Nicole and I talk. Trying to figure out what to do. She's been attempting to find us health insurance. Going to the Medicaid office in Newark with the children in tow and presenting our papers, being told after three three hour visits that she's in the wrong office and directed to the other office, New Jersey Family Care. She starts over again and delays 5 month old Shaw's vaccinations until we can arrange some kind of coverage.

She's also trying to modify our mortgage with the bank, we don't qualify for the federal programs because it's an independent bank not backed by Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac. They do offer some moderate modification and we are in negotiations.

She is exhausted with worry. So am I. We are swollen with it. We talk about it in our bedroom as the kids sleep. It's not just the hours in the welfare office or the endless phone calls to the bank, the fruitless auditions, those are just tasks. It's the worry that we're attaching to those tasks and the fact that we're not taking equal parts joy in the moments around us, that's what's hurting us. We're not welcoming happiness. Not singing enough, dancing enough. We're not taking of what's right in front of us.

We come to the conclusion that if this "crisis" robs us of our happiness we lose. If it's really just about holding on to this overpriced old house, it's just a house and it's not worth it. That there will always be a crisis no matter what the outcome of the present one is and our job is not to "lose it" but to keep inviting the life that is waiting for us to appear. If we were rich, we'd never get to learn this lesson.

Let's find a way to love this terrible time. Then we'll win. And somehow, in a way we can't see right now, that is the lesson to learn. We need to guard our happiness and nurture it furiously for ourselves and the family. Because, for your kids, your life is your lesson.

If not now, when?

Chef Louis called me again. He has an idea for starting an underground restaurant in his house. Would I help by using sous skills and front of house skills?

"Sure, I can help you out!" Because, I have recently relearned, I can.

I noticed the other day when stopping by the Home Depot for a new light switch that they are hiring.


FOR THE CORNMEAL BISCUITS

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup fine cornmeal
2 tsp. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
6 Tbs. cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
3/4 cup sour cream or plain whole milk yogurt
Milk

FOR THE RATATOUILLE

1 large eggplant (1 1/2 pounds) cut into 1-inch chunks
3 small zucchini (3/4), cut into 3-inch chunks
7 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. kosher salt
3/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3/4 pound Italian sausage, casings removed
1 large onion, cut into i-inch dice
1 red pepper, cored and cut into 1-inch chunks
3 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 1/2 pounds plum tomatoes
4 sprigs thyme
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley or basil

1. For the biscuits: In a bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Using a pastry cutter or fork, cut in the butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Fold in the sour cream. Gently knead mixture until it comes together in a ball, adding a drop or two of milk if necessary. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450º.

2. For the ratatouille: In a bowl, toss eggplant and zucchini with 5 tablespoons oil, season with 3/4 teaspoon salt and 3/4 teaspoon pepper. Spread vegetables in a single layer on one or two large baking sheets (do not crowd vegetable). Transfer to oven and roast, tossing occasionally, until golden, about 20 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large, deep preferably oven-proof sauté pan, heat 1 tablespoon oil. Crumble sausage into pan and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 7 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer sausage to a paper-towel lined plate.

4. Return pan to medium heat and add remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Stir in the onion, pepper, garlic and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt. Cook until softened, 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes and thyme sprigs; simmer gently until tomatoes are cooked and mixture is stew-like, about 10 minutes. Stir in the sausage, roasted vegetables and parsley. If you are not using an oven-safe pan, transfer mixture to a 2-quart gratin dish or baking pan.

5. Divide biscuit dough into six equal balls. Use your palm to flatten each ball into a 1/2 -inch thick disk. Arrange on top of ratatouille mixture. Brush biscuit lightly with milk.

6. Transfer skillet or pan to oven and cook until biscuit are golden, 25 to 30 minutes. Let cool 10 minutes before serving.

The Kindness of Yeast

I had a couple of appointments in the city earlier in the week; an audition for a new musical up at ART in Cambridge this spring, and a dinner meeting with the publishers of the children's books I'm writing.

Audition was first. I took the train in and arrived at the studio, there was one fellow ahead of me. I organized the four scenes they had asked me to prepare and got my audition book open to the song I would sing. I gave into a pacing/wandering between the studio and drinking fountain while I waited. The fellow went before me. I could hear him through the door. He sang and then read one of the same scenes I was asked to prepare, so I knew we were up for the same role(s). He was shorter than I, rounder, and bald. What is called a "character" actor in the business. Over time it is the slot that I find myself in. On the breakdowns with the audition info that the agency sends me via the emails I often see the words "seeking a character actor to play..."

I heard genial laughter and "thank yous" coming from the room and knew that I was next. The other guy came out with the casting assistant who said, "Drew? Are you ready?" I walked to my laid out materials, gathered them and said "Yes."

How many auditions? Truly. I wonder what the actual number is.

I walk in and there are the two readers facing me off to the side in their chairs. One male, one female. There is the audition accompanist behind the piano. There is a group of three people behind a long table facing me. There is a woman sitting center who I presume is the director, the casting associate, and another man... perhaps the writer?

"Hello," I say and make my way to the accompanist. I put my book in front of her and ask her if she knows the piece, she says she thinks so. I arrange the material for the scenes on the body of the piano for quick retrieval after the song.

I sing the song. I stand in front of the strangers and sing a song. I arrange myself at a slight angle off stage left and sing. At the key change the accompanist who had been doing doing well, doesn't change the key. One corner of my mind says, "c'mon accompanist... you can do it... key change." She does. Another corner of my mind is in the song, telling the story, "acting". This part controls what is being seen. Another corner of my mind is running a kind of narrative like this: "This is too much song for these "roles". The parts I'm auditioning for don't need this much of a song. But dammit, this is a song I sing well. It's difficult, it's complex. I've worked on it for years now and have had successful, fruitful auditions with this song. I sang this song for Stephen Sondheim and got the job." In yet another corner, another mind monitor is hard at work driving the physical work of the song production, "Easy, easy now. Big breath... flat tone and... wait for it.... vibrate. Volume! Breath! More Volume....pull back and.... head voice."

I finish singing the song for the strangers. There is no response. I walk to the piano to retrieve the material for the reading/acting section of the audition.

The woman who I presume is the director asks me what the name of that song was. I tell her. A phase that must easily repeat 12 times in the piece. She says "Ah. Okay let's take a look at 'Yawkey'". Yawkey is a character in one of the four scenes and four characters that I have been asked to prepare. I say, "Great!"

I think, "Shit. Yawkey is the one I like the least, and in my own humble opinion, the one that is written the most poorly. 2 and a half pages of dialog that is colorful "character" dialog, but with nothing much happening, no actual event.

I step back, hold up my sides and begin. The first line is a kind of joke. No response. No response throughout the scene as I read and (death) try harder.

The voice coming out of me doesn't sound like me. I feel fake.

I am done. The woman who I presume is the director says. "Thanks." Which means, "no" and also means "we're done, we're not going to read the other scenes."

I gather things, make eye contact with the accompanist and say "Thanks," which means thank you for not screwing me up too badly, and I leave the room.

I probably spent an hour and a half reading the script for this play. Another hour and a half working on the scenes, differentiating characters. An hour in on the train, an hour back. 1/2 hour waiting in the hall. 9 minutes in the audition room. You do the math.

As I take the elevator down from the studio and emerge on 8th Avenue I have instant post audition regret. I think that as a result of experiencing what didn't work in the scene I now know what would have worked. "If only I'd played the opposite."

No really. What is the number? 23 years in. How many auditions?

I have performance regret for an audition for a job I didn't really want in the first place. Do I really think that the resentment doesn't show? Do I really think that I still have the eye of the tiger? I have the eye of the beaten dog and frankly I wince when someone moves too quickly in the room. Hard to believe I'm going to get a job this way. In fact, sort of ludicrous.

I walk slowly up 8th Avenue. Thirties, Forties, Fifties, to the Lincoln Center area where I have the second appointment. A dinner meeting with book people. I take twenty dollars out of the bank and give it to a bartender at P.J. Clarke's and he gives me a scotch on the rocks. I kill more time until I'm supposed to meet the next group of strangers by walking around the upper West Side. I call Nicole and she fills me in on kid status. She makes me feel better by saying, "Oh well." when I tell her about the audition. And I do. I feel better.

I feel myself steeling a little as it gets close to time to meet the second group of strangers for the day. I'm sitting on a bench on the perimeter of Central Park, and I say "breathe Drew. Let the crap go. Have a little birthday today on me."

I walk to Cafe Fiorellos and meet the book people.

I recognize the first stranger Emily immediately. This stranger, whom I have met only via the internet gives me a glass of champagne, an embrace and says "I'm so excited and happy to meet you." I recognize the other stranger Sarah because she actually looks like she did in high school, and although we didn't hang out, I know her too. Another embrace. The subject of the book arrives, another stranger who I recognize because I have done my research. And the final stranger who is a complete stranger to me arrives, a dinner guest who is an interested party in the product.

(Sorry for being semi vague about this stuff, but as to content of the books I have been advised to be discreet.)

The dinner flies by. Truly the 3 hours seem much much shorter than the nine minutes I spent with the other strangers earlier in the day. We order food. We order wine. The publishers present slick and beautiful materials and outline their goals. The interested party tells his story and explains his interest. I tell my story. The subject of the book to be tells his story. We laugh and the publishers brush away some tears. We talk about how to tell the story. The strangers listen to me and show signs of liking my ideas. I like my ideas. I eat a semi okay thin crust Pepperoni pizza. Emily has a disappointing ragu pasta. Subject has a disappointing broccoli rabe pasta. Sarah and Interested Party share a semi okay Margherita pizza. We finish wine, have some personal talk and make plans for the next step.

The voice coming out of me sounds like me. I feel real.

We leave the restaurant and all walk down Broadway for a bit before we separate with more hugs. There is a true warmth that I take with me as I walk the rest of the way down Broadway and catch my train at Penn Station.

Without giving too much away, the subject's story has much to do with following bliss. I think about that on the train.


here's a better pizza:

The Dough

2 tsp. active dry yeast
1 cup warm (105º to 115º) water
3 cups all purpose flour
1 Tbs. salt
2 tsp. sugar
1/4 cup plus 1 Tbs. Extra Virgin Olive Oil


The Sauce

1 28 oz. can diced San Marzano Tomatoes in juices
1 Tbs. fresh chopped oregano
1 large garlic clove minced
2 Tbs. fresh chopped basil
2 or 3 Tbs. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt to taste

1 lb. fresh mozzarella cut into strips and drained
Fresh basil leaves
drizzle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Toppings of choice

In a bowl combine warm water and yeast. In a food processor with dough blade on dough setting combine flour, salt and sugar. Mix thoroughly. Add yeast mixture and olive oil and combine until dough forms into a ball. If dough is too sticky add more flour 1 Tbs. at a time, if too dry add warm water 1 Tbs. at a time.

Remove dough from processor and knead on a floured surface for 5 to 10 minutes. Form into a ball, place in an oiled bowl, cover tightly with plastic wrap and let rise for about an hour or until doubled in size.

Combine tomatoes, oregano, garlic, basil, olive oil and salt in a bowl and marinate for at least an hour.

Preheat oven to 450º

Punch down dough and knead for another 5 to 10 minutes. Divide into two balls, wrap tightly with plastic wrap and let rest for 10 to 20 minutes.

Take one of the dough balls and stretch into desired size pizza round. Then repeat with second dough ball.

Top each pizza with sauce, cheese and desired toppings.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, remove from oven and let rest for 3 minutes before slicing and topping with basil leaves.